


Beautiful in the Mirror

by Ann_arien



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fingolfin is the best Elf ever, Fingolfin to the rescue, Incest, Lustful Feanor, M/M, Masturbation, When is Feanor ever not lustful, influenced by grimdark fantasy readings, lots of swearing, slightly cracked Feanor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27326167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ann_arien/pseuds/Ann_arien
Summary: Fëanáro Curufinwë has a full length mirror in his bedroom. And when that is his only companion... he makes use of it creatively.
Relationships: Angrod | Angaráto/Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	Beautiful in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime in the future of [ Friends, Cousins Lovers series ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739176/chapters/1375950) smutverse and after [ Betrothal Earrings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27325330) so clearly there will be spoilers for all of that. There are multiple references to scenes I already wrote in the series and some that are yet to come. 
> 
> Fair warning for this one, I wrote it under the heavy influence of grimdark readings (bless you Joe Joe Abercrombie!) and so, there is a LOT of foul language and dirty, brutally honest imagery. 
> 
> Also, Fëanor might be a little unhinged. Possibly more than a little bit. You decide.

“Hello, beautiful…” Fëanáro greeted his reflection in the mirror. He stopped before the enormous, gilded thing that took up residence a stride away from his bed and gave himself a slow once-over.

Beautiful-in-the-mirror raised a skeptical eyebrow, entirely unconvinced by the sight of drab workman's clothing, hair sprouting in every direction from an untidy topknot, a rust colored smudge across one cheek. Specs of green sparkled on his eyebrows, on his lashes, on his high cheekbones, on the bridge of his nose and the bow of his upper lip-possibly dusting from the last batch of emeralds he had cut and polished, but just as likely the explosive remains of whatever noxious paints Curufinwë had been mixing when Fëanáro had the unfortunate idea of checking in on his son.

He chuckled to himself and walked to the bathing chamber, judging it best to wash off the colorful grime of another workday. There, another Beautiful-in-a smaller-Mirror squinted through bubbles of soap and then glittered with droplets of water, cheeks red from a serious scrubbing. He should draw himself a bath, but Fëanáro didn’t feel like lounging in the deep, marble tub. Perhaps later, when some of the energy crackling just under his skin would be spent, he might give himself over to the warm embrace of water. But for the time being, he had an itch that needed scratching and he'd take care of it before anything else.

All day long, Fëanáro had been in a restless mood. Hard to concentrate on the work at hand… hard to be patient with the foibles of his apprentices and their halting excuses for failure. Even harder to sit still and focus on the precise movements of the cutting tools or the squint-eyed work through the magnifying glass, to file away the smallest impurities and flaws in the cut gems. Oh, he knew what the matter was, Fëanáro had a fairly good idea what was ruffling his tail feathers…

“You mean what _isn’t_ ruffling your tail feathers, right?” he said to Beautifu-in-the-mirror. 

The gorgeous bastard gave him a rueful smile. He knew as well, he could count the days… no, the _weeks_ since the last time he’d been with anyone and even though Fëanáro Curufinwë wasn’t exactly addicted to sex… he also got more twitchy the more time passed for him alone in the big, empty bed.

He left the bathroom and returned to the expanse of rumpled silk sheets, as rucked up and tossed about as he had left them in the morning. No neat-freak copper-haired menace to straighten everything into perfect order (or else replace the sheets if they were as messy as they usually got when Nelyo rose from them and from his father's side in the morning). Not even the extremely annoying grey dog hairs that Huan shed everywhere and Turkafinwë could never be bothered to clean up. Nothing but an expanse of cream colored silk, smooth to the touch and utterly devoid of warmth.

Fëanáro climbed onto his bed and walked the breadth of it on all fours, raising his head and peering at the prowling animal in the mirror. It showed it’s teeth in a white smile that would have sent lesser beasts into hiding, but Fëanáro stuck out his chin defiantly. He rose and sat back on his haunches, stretching languidly, hands above his head. He saw muscles rippling in his arms, beneath the taut fabric that covered his torso. The ragged shirt lifted and exposed how Beautiful-in-the-Mirror was already very interested in what he was seeing. Fëanáro gave him a knowing smirk.

He fumbled with the strip of leather that kept his hair back from his face and hissed in frustration when the knot came free with a couple of pulled hairs in tow. Not for him the beautiful hair clips with clever and easy to open catches… “No, you have to be a slovenly shit, dressed in the oldest and most worn things you have, because that’s going to make you less attractive and distracting to everyone, huh?” he growled at his reflection in the mirror.

Probably he was crazy, Fëanáro thought. The Elf in the mirror most certainly, but also the one who cast the reflection. And the fucking mirror was no small part of it. He gave it a frown and again, lesser beasts would have cowered beneath it, but Beautiful-and-Grumpy-in-the-Mirror simply frowned back. _Like I give a shit about your temper tantrums_ , his eyes seemed to be saying. 

The mirror and its disconcerting inhabitant had followed Fëanáro from the barren wasteland of his former marital chambers. There it had been a simple article of furniture in the dressing room, seldom spared so much as a glance by either himself or Nerdanel, unless they were dressing up for some special occasion or other. But _after_ … when Fëanáro felt the emptiness of his new bedroom closing in on him as cold and as dark as the Void, the mirror was carted all the way across the sprawling house and installed in its new place of honor. Little did Fëanáro know that inside it lived the most miserable, contrary, lecherous, smug, volatile, sinful, foul-mouthed son of a bitch in the history of Arda.

The son of a bitch in question gave a dismissive huff and raked his hands through his hair. Fëanáro closed his eyes and groaned softly as his nails scraped his scalp, the roots of his hair aching after being pulled the wrong way for so many hours. His fingers were caught in the tangle and he hissed, giving up any notion of sorting out the mess. He’d do it after his bath or perhaps he could wheedle some help out of whichever son could be pried away from his own pursuits. In the mean time, Beautiful-in-the-Mirror would just have to settle for wild hair to complete the savage look. The way he was leering back at him, Fëanáro guessed he wouldn’t mind too much. 

_You know you look your best when you’re all mussed and spread across that obscenely large bed. Preferably after you’ve been crushed and plowed into._

Fëanáro shook his head, laughing softly and peering at his own reflection through his eyelashes. The bastard had a point… but alas, they both suffered from a distinct shortage of being crushed and plowed into. Sadly, they’d have to take care of it themselves and for the time being, it would have to be enough. He stretched his neck left, then right, until something gave with a satisfying click. Then, Fëanáro grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulled it off quickly. He tossed it to a corner of the room as though the thing had given him insult. And perhaps it had. _Not enough clasps and ties to make it into a show for me_ , Beautiful-in-the-Mirror chided. _But here you are, stripped and relatively clean… we’ll work with what we have._

Fëanáro sniffed and ignored the jerk in the mirror, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and peeling off his trousers. He noticed a little hole in one of the knees and before he could think better of it, he pulled on the legs, tearing the worn garment apart with ridiculous ease. He let fall the remains and then looked up. His reflection gazed back at him with a mocking little smile. _How pathetic! Someone else should be tearing the breeches off you,_ it said.

Be that as it may, he was finally naked and fully aroused. He’d gone through his day half-hard, irritated by everything and turned on by nothing much… and now his unruly body defied Fëanáro with a very firm exclamation point. He looked down between his legs and heaved a deep sigh. His cock twitched as though trying to admonish him for the lack of proper worship paid to it of late.

“I know, I know…,” Fëanáro muttered. “But I’ve been busy and willing mouths to suck you greedy fucker off seem to be running scarce.”

The laughter that bubbled out of him sounded cracked. _Almost as cracked as I am_! Fëanáro mused, laughing all the more when he looked up and met the eyes of his reflection in the mirror.

 _‘Alright, enough of this bullshit. You know there is no such thing as a shortage of mouths that want a taste of your cock. You just have to advertise the need and they’ll stampede like a herd to the watering hole’_ , it said.

Fëanáro snorted, his imagination supplying the visuals, except the herd was made up of naked Elves, both men and women, eager and savage as he liked to believe they’d all been on the shores of Cuiviénen. But caught in the trappings of civilization as he was, the only stampede Fëanáro could count on was that of his ten clever fingers.

He stretched again, from head to toe, the ripple of muscles much more visible now and much more enticing. Fëanáro scooted back on the bed, propped himself on his elbows and watched his reflection in the mirror as he spread his long legs, feet arched and toes pushing into the covers. Powerful calves stood out, muscles trembling slightly as Fëanáro’s legs tensed further. He blinked and in the mirror, he saw his heels digging into a bare, moving back, hard muscles working beneath white skin all glistening with sweat. Fëanáro gave a low moan and his skin prickled with the memory. Down that broad, muscled back, hair as dark as his own stuck to the damp skin, gold plaited braids swinging with each thrust like eager little whips. 

_This boy and his big cock can give a pounding almost as well as he can take one,_ the Elf in the mirror (the one who was getting good and fucked, so hard his gripping fingers were tearing holes in the sheets) was saying. Fëanáro’s stomach swooped pleasantly and below the waist, his cock gave an even more pleasant throb. The memory of that particular romp with Findekáno rose in Fëanáro’s mind and swept through the length of his body, making him gasp with remembered pleasure. As it had been that night, when the mirror bore witness to the frantic coupling, so it brought everything back now, in all its thrashing, growling, biting, backbreaking glory. Findekáno had been no less coordinated or determined, for all the drink he’d soaked before they tumbled into bed, laughing like lunatics and tearing off uncooperative clothes. He’d been no less eager to put his hands and his mouth everywhere, as though Fëanáro were some grand dessert and not a bit of it should go untasted. And when he fell into the cradle of Fëanáro’s arms and legs, when Findekáno’s hips rolled and pressed and made the demand his mouth was too breathless and tongue-tied to issue, Fëanáro could do nothing else but oblige. 

Fëanáro's toes curled and his hips rose off the bed as they had that night, cock straining for a phantom touch. He shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, the memory so strong that for a moment he felt Findekáno's weight and the heat of him as though his nephew were with him now. He felt the searing thrusts as Findekáno plunged deeper and harder, so hard that Fëanáro had lain abed the entire day after, his buttocks and the backs of his thighs bruised and sore. He would give much and more to be plowed just as enthusiastically now, as he arched his back and he clenched around a cock that wasn’t there.

Fëanáro fell back on the sheets with an oath and when he opened his eyes, the mirror showed only himself, sprawled on the bed, the only upright part of him standing straight and flushed. The illusion of Findekáno shattered, leaving behind an ache that punched Fëanáro deep in the gut. He loved that boy, could have savored the sheer deliciousness of him indefinitely… but Findekáno had been his on loan and Nelyo was wise enough to realize that too much of each other would leave his two great loves utterly addicted. So he had gently advised caution and moderation…

 _Nelyo knows damn well not to let you wriggle between them and claim too much of his beloved. He knows how dangerous you are_ , Beautiful-in-the-Mirror observed wryly. 

And deep down, Fëanáro knew he was right. For all his declarations of selfless love and his genuine desire to share without possessing, it just wasn’t in his nature not to claim and not to grasp everything with both hands (and with both legs whenever possible). Fëanáro Curufinwë was made to want and to possess everything he wanted and every such impulse he curbed only served to fuel his desires that much more.

 _And what better example for this, your insatiable appetites and your grasping nature is there than your beloved firstborn?_ Beautiful-in-the-Mirror drawled.

“Ah, Nelyo…” Fëanáro whispered the name longingly. His Nelyo, the ungrateful wretch, gone from home for weeks and weeks, playing diplomat in Tirion by day and probably spreading Findekáno on every available surface in the palace by night. Where was he, with his delectable mouth and those piercing eyes that never failed to strip Fëanáro to bare bones under his knowing scrutiny?

A thousand memories of Nelyo bubbled beneath the surface of Fëanáro’s lust fogged mind, he had an endless supply of passionate moments to pleasure himself with… but the voice of his reflection in the mirror drawled inside his head, sounding exactly like Nelyo. 

_No hands, atar._

And just like that, he was transported to that unforgettable day they had spent in Fëanáro’s and Nerdanel's former quarters. Where Nelyo had dragged him in spite of his protests, got down on his knees and blew him spectacularly (as only Nelyo could) and then fucked Fëanáro on his marital bed. All this madness in a bid to exorcise the last of Fëanáro’s demons, apparently. Well… perhaps the demons still lurked in the corners , but those rooms were now the place where he and Nelyo met to have their occasional trysts, if both of them expected company in their respective bedrooms and could not be bothered to change the sheets.

No hands, Nelyo had demanded and Fëanáro’s fingers had twitched against his thighs the same way they did now. He wanted to touch himself, he needed to do it quite badly now, but chose to turn his attention to the mirror instead. He saw the red head bobbing up and down, slowly at first and then faster and felt the things Nelyo had been doing with his tongue that day. His son (beyond talented at giving pleasure with his mouth) had spent years writing entire tomes of oral delight upon Feanaro's skin. On that particular day, he had made Fëanáro tremble and strain to the very limits of his control, before Nelyo finally gave in and offered his mouth for Fëanáro to pursue his pleasure as hard as he wanted to.

On the bed, his hips were squirming and rolling, thrusting minutely into empty air, while in the mirror, Fëanáro's cock plunged in and out, past glistening lips and into wet, hot bliss. His hands full of silky red hair squeezed and pressed the bobbing head closer. He knew Nelyo could barely breathe, but remembered how his fingers had dug into his clenching buttocks and were pulling Fëanáro closer, deeper down his throat. 

The cry of need that spilled from Fëanáro’s lips was a twin to the sounds he’d been making that day. No hands became a desperate squeeze of his own cock and a couple of rough strokes that blurred Fëanáro’s vision. He bucked and tossed his head, drawing breath in quick, short gasps. When his eyes fell on the mirror again, the red head still moved before his groin, braids all undone under the insistent pull of Fëanáro’s fingers. But the world lurched and the image turned to show Fëanáro the profile of his sweet tormentor. He saw the dusting of freckles on tanned cheeks, the full, red lips that knew every inch of him, the slightly upturned nose that gave her such a saucy, defiant look…

A sliver of ice pierced Fëanáro's pleasure and the fingers around his length closed into a painful grip. 

“Not you!” he croaked to the empty room, but it was too late and Nerdanel too deeply ingrained into every fiber of him to ever be completely expunged. And she had given him pleasure, all the pleasure in the world…

 _When the world was no more than the narrow conjugal pen you hemmed yourself into, where you were supposed to suckle at the same tit and breed with the same mare for the rest of your interminable life,_ Beautiful-in-the-Mirror growled, no longer quite so beautiful, in spite of his nakedness and unabated arousal.

 _Before you had the faintest idea what you really need and what truly satisfies you,_ the implacable voice ground on. Fëanáro could no more deny it than he could stop the blood from running red and fiery through his veins. 

_She might have pleased you once, but you know now that she is of no use to you anymore. Smart at her betrayal all you want, but you are better off shed of her. Nothing but a complication with no cock and with too many opinions you don’t care a fuck for, an obstacle in the way of your true happiness. Be truthful with yourself and admit that if you could have had your sons by yourself, no fucking woman would have had a fraction of the power this one held over you!_

Harsh and ugly words, growled in a voice almost foreign to Fëanáro. But he still recognized it as his own and could not deny it. It doused some of his fires and the sweat on his skin turned cold, so he cast a pleading look toward Harsh-in-the-Mirror and urged him to banish the unfortunate intrusion upon his pleasure. 

_Very well, then… relax your grip and look again,_ the voice drawled. Fëanáro eased the pressure on his aching length, muttering breathless curses aimed at himself. The curses grew louder and more colorful when he glanced back at the mirror and still he stood there, in the same abandoned room, with the same red head pressed against his groin.

“Please give me back my Nelyo,” he whispered.

 _Look again_.

He did look, and this time, the lurch in perspective gave Fëanáro a view of freckle-dusted cheeks, full red lips that slid over the hard length of him, slightly upturned nose that gave him such a saucy, defiant look…

Fëanáro nearly jumped off the bed, breath catching in his throat. His very wide eyes took in the conjuration of what very definitely hadn’t happened in his old rooms. But the scene carried on all the same and in it, the hands that touched Fëanáro gently and reverently were not Nelyo's. Nor was the soft, sensual smile that of his eldest son. The eyes gazing up at him with playfulness and adoration might have been the same color, but they belonged to Fëanáro’s youngest.

 _This, now… is something else altogether,_ Beautiful-in-the-Mirror softened and warmed, or at least his voice did. Below the waist, he pulsed and glistened with the first drops of precum and Telvo occupied himself with giving it the most maddening, kittenish licks. 

Fëanáro drew in a shuddering breath and sprawled loosely on the bed, fully overcome by what his mind had conjured. His stomach plummeted, but not with guilt. His fingers fluttered over his belly and felt the first drops of pleasure already spilling from him. For all he should have recoiled from the notion of having his youngest son kneeling before him, the vision of Telvo nuzzling his cock made Fëanáro’s head swim and his toes curl.

 _My little Vixen_. Beautiful-in-the-Mirror said softly and with much affection, his fingers smoothing red hair gently, tracing the line of Telvo's jaw, brushing his parted lips. On the bed, Fëanáro bit into his knuckles hard, while the thumb of his other hand rubbed the slick head of his cock slowly. 

“Fuck...,” he moaned helplessly.

 _Yes. Fuck. Fuck him. You know you want to._ His more sanguine reflection agreed. _He's styled himself Vixen for a reason, this naughty boy of yours. And he’s been wanting to lift his tail for you since before even knew how it’s done. Since he and his twin discovered that your fixation with red-heads goes far beyond that former wife of yours._

“Fuck!” Fëanáro groaned, shaken by the bluntness of that admission, but also because his fingers had picked up the good work on his cock and the pleasure inside him was building rapidly.

_By all means, fuck away… And sooner rather than later. It’s getting harder to ignore the way this gorgeous, eager little minx is panting after you. Give him what he wants and maybe you’ll ease his fixation. Or maybe you'll earn yourself another favorite red-head, if Nelyo is so determined to build his own nest._

“FUCK!” Fëanáro shouted, outraged by the very notion that he could ever replace Nelyo, even if one of his brothers were to take his place. He could have punched himself in the face (or else punched the bastard in the mirror) for even fleetingly entertaining such a low thought.

_And why is it such a low thought? Why adore and desire one son but not the other? Are they not all yours and equally worthy of your attention? If another one of them craves your passion, who are you to deny him?_

The damned voice was relentless. It chipped away at the last shreds of sense (and Fëanáro had never had much of that to begin with), leaving behind the kind of giddiness Fëanáro felt only when he knew he was doing something he should not be doing. 

_Today, you touch yourself and think of Telvo, with his bright eyes and his sultry smiles and the way his touches always linger and his hugs are not innocent anymore. Tomorrow, you will do this…_

In the mirror, Fëanáro was sitting on the edge of the bed, with Telvo straddling his legs, backed all the way down and onto Fëanáro’s cock. He was rolling his hips, moving back and forth slowly. Fëanáro’s hands were everywhere on him, squeezing his parted thighs, palming his jutting cock, fingers fluttering over Telvo's hard belly or pinching his nipples. Though he couldn’t hear it, Fëanáro knew that his son was moaning breathlessly, head thrown back and resting on Fëanáro’s shoulder, offering the column of his neck to kisses and bites that Fëanáro lavished upon him with a will. There wasn’t much room too wriggle in that position, but the tableau was meant to tease and fan the flames of lust. Telvo as an offering, spread open and speared to the hilt, grinding his hips against Fëanáro with much relish.

Alone on his own bed, Fëanáro smothered a very loud moan with the back of his hand. Behind his closed eyelids, a kaleidoscope of scenes floated by in rapid succession, and in each one he was ravishing his youngest son in a different way. Blessed (or cursed) with a vivid imagination, Fëanáro let himself succumb to it and tasted the forbidden fruit with no more hesitation.

“You’re mine. Mine…, all mine!” he growled, and in his mind, Telvo was moaning _yes, yours… all yours, please take me_. Spread on the bed and folded in half beneath the hammer strokes, Telvo was gripping Fëanáro fiercely with both arms and legs, pulling him close, panting into his mouth and wordlessly begging for more. Fëanáro plundered him at both ends and tasted blood in his mouth (he’d bitten his own lip but was too far gone to notice). Independent of himself, his clever hands moved everywhere, squeezing and pinching and rubbing and coaxing very real moans to go with the bedroom music that filled Fëanáro’s imagination. And when the pace grew frantic, when Telvo was sobbing and clawing at his back and coming apart, it carried Fëanáro over the edge as well. 

He gripped a fistful of soft sheets and they were silky red hair between his fingers. And while his own hand could never replace the tight heat of a willing body beneath him, Fëanáro dreamed that someone else's fingers were drawing out the last of his release. His chest was heaving and his legs were trembling, small aftershocks of pleasure coursing through Fëanáro’s entire body even as his mind rode the wave of bliss, still blanketed by images of sweet, soft lips and silver eyes all dark and unfocused with pleasure.

When he came back to himself and opened his eyes, Fëanáro struggled to remember where he was. He cast about for Telvo or someone… _anyone_ , the taste and the feel of his imagined lovers so real that Fëanáro could not accept he was truly alone. But the mirror would not lie, it showed him the sight of an even more rumpled bed, with only one Elf sprawled bonelessly upon it. He groaned and sank into the pillows, head still spinning and skin tingling with pleasure. 

“Oh, fuck…” Fëanáro muttered breathlessly. Now that he was coming to and could string two coherent thoughts together, he felt more than a little shaken by what had just transpired. Had he just exploded all over himself to the thought of pounding his youngest son into the mattress? He exhaled another oath and risked a glance at himself in the blasted mirror.

There he was, the beautiful bastard, glowing with spent lust, strands of hair plastered to the sides of his face and his neck. Fëanáro saw Beautiful-in-the-mirror raising his eyebrow at the perfectly debauched sight and the corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy smirk.

 _You're not going to start feeling guilty on me now, are you?_ he said.

Guilty? Fëanáro bit his lip. By all means, he should have been feeling guilty and disgusted with himself at the lecherous thoughts that so inflamed him. But his conscience was a battered old thing, slinking cowardly in the corner and hardly ever daring to raise even the most feeble of protests. He and his conscience had had their wars years ago, but Nelyo had vanquished the beast and ever since, all it got whenever it raised its head was a solid kicking.

 _Why even bother?_ Beautiful-in-the -mirror drawled. _I ask you again, how is one son different from another?_

When it came to fucking them, Fëanáro supposed there would not be that much difference in the level of sin committed. Except Telvo was is youngest baby boy and…

_He is older than Nelyo was when you let him seduce you._

A fair point. But Nelyo would still geld him, if Fëanáro actually considered pursuing the fantasy. And Nolofinwë would surely chop off whatever was left after Nelyo finished with him. Not a happy thought, that. And yet, Beautiful-in-the-mirror smirked on, moving one lazy finger through the puddle of cooling semen on Fëanáro’s stomach.

 _Denying yourself the things you want never works out well,_ he said. _But take your time, work it out, wait and watch if you must. In the end, it’s only a matter of time. You raised your sons to deny themselves nothing as well, and if you believe your youngest is any different from your eldest in that respect… think again._

Fëanáro’s breath hitched as he pictured his Vixen the way he had been on their latest hunt, when they’d all dragged Fëanáro away from the forge and out into the wild. _Vixen_ was a playful affectation of a name, Ambarussa were both lean, young wolves, sharp-eyed and sharp-toothed and hungry to prove themselves as strong and as mean as the rest of the pack. Summoned by Fëanáro’s feverish mind's eye, Telufinwë rose in his full glory as he had been that day, stripped of all but his breeches and boots, hair pulled back in a red snake of a braid that swung down his tense back as he crept low through the undergrowth. Skin painted with mottled colors to blend with the foliage, brow furrowed and lips pressed in concentration, Telvo moved silently, every flex of muscle and tendon purposeful. Fëanáro’s breath caught again, as it had then, to watch his son leap out of cover and onto the great buck they had all been stalking. No bows and arrows, for some reason known only to Turkafinwë, all of them carried only their belt knives and hunted as a pack, stalking their prey and separating it from the herd. The magnificent beast that died under Telvo's knife had run, trying to direct the predators away from the does and their young. It had let them on a breathless chase through the trackless woods until it believed itself safe and stopped for a mouthful of water by the side of a little brook. Telvo finished the job quickly and when he turned to his kinsmen, a feral grin of triumph gleamed white in a face spattered with blood. Fëanáro bit his lip, the recollection making him shiver all over.

_When he comes to you, a weapon of a different kind gripped in his hand, run all you like, you’ll only make him hungrier if he has to chase you._

To his absolute lack of surprise, Fëanáro looked down at himself and saw that his cock was already responding in anticipation.

_It’s only a matter of time._

“Only a matter of time…,” he exhaled. 

_But in the mean time, why don’t we have a little diversity?_

The thought rose unbidden, making Fëanáro cast his own reflection a puzzled look. He blinked, and the mirror now showed him diversity in the form of another breathtaking, half nude form, the back of it draped with a luscious, long mane of golden hair. Fëanáro froze. He knew those long legs and that broad back and the round, spectacularly muscled backside. 

“No, not Turko…,” he protested weakly. But under his fingers, he felt himself swell and harden all over again. He squirmed and tossed his head in denial, but the attempt was doomed. Fëanáro might have fought the good fight against temptation for a long, long time. He might have given Turkafinwë only the affection and protection of his fatherly embrace… but Turko himself had bulled through that boundary in his typical, unconcerned fashion.

 _Maybe not Turko, if you’re not ready,_ Beautiful-in-the-Mirror murmured soothingly. And through his eyelashes, Fëanáro saw Turkafinwë’s tall frame shifting to reveal another, equally appetizing blond.

“Oh,” he moaned, a thrill of lust surging through him, making his skin break out in goosebumps and peaking his nipples.

 _Oh yes_ , the sinful voice in his head agreed. _That one you can fantasize about all you want._

Technically, his baby brother’s sons should have been just as forbidden as his own, Fëanáro mused distractedly. But he was thrusting up into the slick cavern of his palm and the thought of Turkafinwë's betrothed made Fëanáro swell to full hardness.

In his mind's eye he saw Angaráto as he has been that day in the workshop, the day he and Turkafinwë had marked their ownership of each other with sparkling betrothal earrings and Fëanáro had been the one to do the honors. The second of his sons to take that step and the unconventional jewels those two had chosen to advertise their bond. More relevant to the situation at hand, the way Angaráto had lain in the big chair, neck exposed and brilliant jewel dangling from his ear. The drop of blood that Fëanáro could not help tasting, the heat of Angaráto’s skin and the scent of his arousal… That smoldering look in his hooded eyes when Fëanáro raised himself to look at his nephew and his breathless cry when Turko took him to the back of his throat. Those two had turned the piercing of their ears into something utterly sinful, having at each other right there in Fëanáro’s workspace, utterly unmindful of Fëanáro still being with them.

_Or that much more aroused because you were there. No point denying it, Arafinwë’s boy would have had a taste of you that day, if you hadn’t done the right thing and shambled off to drown your lust in a cold water barrel._

Fëanáro ground his teeth hard (and pressed the heel of his palm against the base of his erection). Fuck it, fuck it to the top of the Meneltárma and back, it was true. Angaráto might be a possessive and sometimes hard-handed, rough little bastard, but ever since he'd won his true love back (with Fëanáro’s blessing and helpful nudging here and there) the boy had been positively ingratiating around Fëanáro. Almost as if he wished to dislodge Findekáno from the spot of favorite nephew. As if he knew the path Finno had walked to get there and was more than willing to travel it himself.

“Oh, fuck!” Fëanáro groaned, in part because he knew how much he enjoyed treating the gorgeous blond as one of his own sons (and apparently, adoption into the family meant the full attention of their lecherous new father) but also because his groin was throbbing more and more insistently.

 _I’m sure Turko would have let you have some fun, if you had stayed with them that day,_ the voice of evil whispered in Fëanáro’s ear. And just like that, in his mind, he didn’t walk away from Turkafinwë and Angaráto, just as the former loomed naked above his beloved, all poised to spear him. Fëanáro stayed and somehow, they were both having Angaráto over the sturdy chair. He was kneeling on the seat, bottom raised, his hips blossoming with red little bruises under the relentless grip of Turkafinwë’s fingers. Angaráto held the back of the chair in a white-knuckled grip of his own, his chin propped on the edge and his lips curved around Fëanáro’s erection. They were both filling Angaráto up, Turkafinwë and Fëanáro, moving in tandem while Angaráto took the full length of them with muffled groans.

On his bed, Fëanáro bucked up into his own hand, squeezing his eyes shut and shuddering with the impact of that mental image. Angaráto preferred it rough, so Turko had boasted and so they gave it to him, pushing into him and grabbing at him, purchase slippery on sweaty skin and damp hair. And because Fëanáro’s mind was as unruly as his body, it wanted him to look right into Turkafinwë's eyes while he was shoving himself down Angaráto’s throat.

Fëanáro let out a desperate sound and rolled on his side, pressing his face into the pillow and muffling the worst of the noise. Not that he was overly concerned someone might hear but because he needed to bite into something. Between his legs, his fingers curled into a tight fist and moved faster. He was panting and his skin prickled with little needles of pleasure from head to toe. Fëanáro wanted to draw it out, but it was such a delicious fantasy. The muscles in Turko's stomach rippling with every forceful thrust, his jaw set and his eyes glittering, sweeping over both his companions with fierce possessiveness Angaráto shining with perspiration, every bit of him hard and taut under the dual pressure, moaning ever louder around the flesh sliding in and out of his mouth. It was so real Fëanáro could hear it, he could smell it… he could feel every slide of wet tongue and every vibration of abused throat.

He didn’t know when he’d rolled to face the mirror once more, but the sight that met Fëanáro was enough to tear another deep moan from him. A new layer of sweat shone on his skin, his neck and chest and face were flushed and between his legs, Fëanáro’s cock throbbed, growing dark and painful with unbearable pressure. He forced himself to slow the frantic movement of his hand and to loosen the fierce grip, or else he would splatter the mirror in the span of the next few heaving breaths.

 _Enjoying this a bit too much, are we?_ Beautiful-in-the-Mirror tried to sound off-hand, but the bastard was breathless too, his red, bitten lips pulling back to show his teeth in a savage grin. 

“I'm enjoying this… a bit too fucking much!” Fëanáro growled, trying to loosen his limbs and calm the mad fluttering of his heart just a little. A quick, hard climax was rather the point of the whole exercise, but then… Angaráto was two bedrooms away and would have to be looked at during dinner. Fëanáro had much skill at everything, but he doubted his ability to meet his nephew's eyes if he came all over himself now, dreaming he was shooting his seed down Angaráto’s throat.

_Fine, then! Think of another blond and lets get on with this!_

The voice was decidedly strained now, less seduction and more frustration coming through. Fëanáro drew in a ragged breath and closed his eyes, casting about for another memory or another fantasy that would take him over the edge. Then he'd have a bath and he’d try to put on some semblance of decency along with his clothes and hopefully the itch for fucking would let up for a while. 

A bath.

Fëanáro opened his eyes a fraction and through his eyelashes, he saw the mirror opening into a bathing chamber. He felt his lips curving in a wide grin and new heat pooled low in his gut. A bath. THE bath. That one, singular, glorious occasion when Nolofinwë finally relented and disclosed the identity of his first lover. Fëanáro had moaned and wheedled, growled and threatened, sulked and grumbled, but his love would not say the name. Not even when Fëanáro swore he was not jealous and would not stalk up to whatshisface, demanding that he give Nolofinwë his virginity back.

And indeed he hadn’t… because however much he would have wanted to be Nolofinwë’s first and only lover, Fëanáro knew such expectations were absurd. One look at his own dirty self in the mirror and he also knew that he was the last person in the world to demand exclusivity from anyone. No matter how much love there was between them and how their souls sang to each other and their bodies danced to that music.

Fëanáro let out a shuddering sigh. There it was. The root of his problem. The source of his restlessness. The absence of his love and the need for him that built and built with each passing day. They hadn't fallen out and Tirion was just a few hours away on horseback, but Fëanáro hadn’t made the journey. Not even if the weeks stretched by and he missed Nolofinwë more than he could say with words. More, in fact, than he would say in words even to himself. 

_Too much of a coward to admit that you’re aching for him and not just between your legs either? Too proud to jump on a horse and go to him yourself? Still clinging to the notion that you’re the one in charge of this whole thing and Nolofinwë is not walking around with your heart in his pocket? Is that why you’re so tempted by sons and nephews and whoever else? Is this how you’re trying to prove to yourself that you are still your own person and not half of a joining with someone else?_

“Fuck off!” Fëanáro growled into his pillow. “I don’t need any of this shit right now!”

The derisive chuckle he got in response made Fëanáro want to smash the mirror. He half rose, meaning to put his fist to it, then caught the sight of himself. Wild-haired and wild-eyed, teeth bared at his own reflection, one fist clenched at his side and the other clenched around his cock, as though it was glued there (and if he carried on like this much longer, it would be). The thought pricked his anger and it popped like a soap bubble, making him crash back on the bed, chuckling faintly.

“I'm insane…” he whispered to himself.

For once, the Asshole-in-the-Mirror declined to voice any opinion. Not in much hurry to deny the insanity either, but why would he? If Fëanáro couldn’t even pleasure himself without all these mental and emotional contortions, something must be fundamentally wrong with him. 

“Fuck this shit,” he breathed out raggedly and gave one more mental heave. One more effort to get him the physical satisfaction, at least. There was a blond who's delectable mouth he _had_ fucked on that special occasion, in Nolofinwë’s bathing chambers. He’d think about that and get the fuck on with it.

_Laurefindë._

The Golden Whore of Tirion. Fëanáro remembered being mostly amused and mildly annoyed to discover that the slithery, sensual, extremely popular and extremely liberal with his affections Elf had been Nolofinwë first lover. At least Nolofinwë had learned the doings of sex with another male in the most practiced company. Or so the word went, Fëanáro couldn’t vouch for it himself as he hadn't had the pleasure (it had never crossed his mind to _desire_ the pleasure with Glorfindel or any other except his Nelyo. For the longest of time it had been only him, but then the Nolofinwëans had kicked the barn doors open and the horses were all fled and apparently Fëanáro would now mount anyone who stood still long enough).

Random, ridiculous thoughts, in no way helpful with the stiff nuisance between his legs. So Fëanáro closed his eyes and guided the nuisance where he knew it had been taken care of very, very well. In Nolofinwë’s bathing chambers, where Nolofinwë chose to disclose the identity of his first lover by sharing him with Fëanáro. That in itself had made Fëanáro almost burst with love for his brother. Especially since he noticed how immensely besotted Laurefindë was with his prince (of course he was, who wouldn’t be?) And how he could not disguise his jealousy or his envy of Fëanáro, when Nolofinwë wasn’t watching. Still, Laurefindë strove to please them both, basking in the praise and appreciation Nolofinwë heaped on him, while Fëanáro watched them and smiled and gave no one the satisfaction of seeing any of his own discomfiture. They'd shared Laurefindë between them at the end of that interesting night (the blond became more interested in Fëanáro once the clothes came off and after Nolofinwë had fucked any coherent thought out his pretty little head. It had been a tantalizing experience for Fëanáro in its own right, being there, naked and aroused and not the object of immediate and singular adoration. That someone would see him thus and still prefer another. Granted, Fëanáro himself much preferred that other as well, but still…)

“You took me in your mouth until there was no voice left in you, you golden little shit!” Fëanáro ground out between his teeth. Laurefindë had done just that, getting on hands and knees and welcoming them both with a husky voice. When all restraint was abandoned, Fëanáro had looked up from the glistening lips and the dazed blue eyes. Above Glorfindel's body, Nolofinwë was searching for him also and Fëanáro reached out for him. He was too far away, to hold and to kiss as Fëanáro wanted to, they had to settle for joined hands and eyes locked on each other, making love through the bond between them and through the body that took their pleasure. 

Yes, that was it, that would do it! Fëanáro's thighs were trembling and his stomach tensed spasmodically, to the touch of both hands on him now. In his mind Fëanáro relived the ecstasy of that coupling, with Laurefindë’s tongue swirling and his throat humming as Nolofinwë pleasured him. But Fëanáro's attention had been fully given to his brother. To the sheer, breathtaking beautify of him as he moved, muscles rippling under flawless skin, chest rising and falling rapidly, hair a dark wave of silk spilling over his shoulders. The way Nolofinwë’s blazing eyes set the air between them to burn. That had been the true pleasure. And a gift that Fëanáro would always treasure, being able to see his brother in the throes of his passion, to make love to him but at enough of a distance to bear witness to it as well. The experience had been an epiphany, giving Fëanáro something to worship even more than he had before.

The memories galvanized him now and he writhed on his bed, the orgasm building and burning low in is belly as though he had swallowed hot coals. Fëanáro twisted himself and reached behind him with one slick hand, fingers sliding between clenching buttocks and through the tight ring of muscle without any finesse. Two fingers, up to the knuckles, probing fast and deep and rubbing just the right way, while his other hand slid over his cock ever faster.

If the first climax had merely taken the edge off his hunger, the second one tore through Fëanáro with such force that he almost rolled off the bed. The stars before his closed eyelids coalesced into a cosmic explosion, currents of fire raced under his skin and everything below Fëanáro’s heaving chest felt like molten steel overflowing from a crucible. He was panting something, possibly a name, probably a prayer or just unintelligible exclamations of bliss. 

***

The muffled sound of his own name being called out halted Nolofinwë in mid motion, his hand raised to knock on his brother's bedroom door. The relief on his nephews' faces when they had seen him riding up to the house and their mutterings about their father being in a _mood_ had been disturbing enough. Now he felt his stomach clenching with worry for Fëanáro, his voice could still be heard through the door, low and plaintive. Nolofinwë tried the handle and found the door unlocked. With an exhale of relief for that small mercy, Nolofinwë strode into his brother’s room, opening his mouth to voice his concern.

It was the smell that hit him first. That earthy, musky scent of spent semen and sweat, underlined by the tangy aroma of Fëanáro’s work clothes after being scorched in the forges all day. 

Then, Nolofinwë’s mouth dropped all the way open when his eyes fell on the large bed and the sprawl of naked limbs on it. Fëanáro lay atop the rucked up covers, head fallen back between two pillows, more of them scattered around him and on the floor. He was heaving like a bellows, mouth open, hair fallen across his face. Nolofinwë saw his hands twitching and even his legs trembling slightly. He also saw that his chest and stomach were splattered with his own seed and suddenly, the cries from before made sense.

To say the bottom of his stomach was now somewhere around Nolofinwë’s ankles would be an understatement. His jaw seemed to be hanging on by a thread, until he snapped it shut with a click. His eyes had grown so wide Nolofinwë was surprised they hadn’t popped right out of his skull and everywhere his clothes touched his skin, they seemed to burn.

Fëanáro, meanwhile, had no notion that he was no longer alone. Nolofinwë watched him trying to catch his breath, but he wasn’t idle as he contemplated the scene of absolute debauchery before him. Laces tore and buttons flew and Nolofinwë yanked off his tunic and shirt and his trousers were halfway down his legs before he thought to kick off his boots. But even those ungainly acrobatics did nothing to rouse Fëanáro from his post orgasmic stupor. Whatever he'd done to himself, it must have been damned good, Nolofinwë mused, grinning now. The blood had gone from his head to his groin so fast he might have fallen over, if he hadn’t been used to having this kind of reaction every time he saw his brother. Well, maybe not quite like _this,_ but still, he held on to his scattering wits and stopped himself from pouncing for just one more moment.

Fëanáro stirred and hummed low in his throat. One sticky hand rose shakily in an ineffective attempt to brush the hair out of his eyes. Nolofinwë looked at him and couldn’t believe what he was seeing, loving him so much he could scream and wanting Fëanáro so much it stole all the breath from him. Nolofinwë’s cock twitched and pointed straight to those spread legs, _it_ had the right idea. So, without stopping to rouse Fëanáro, to speak to him, to see if he was well, Nolofinwë just climbed on the bed and fell upon the prone body. He’d see to it that more pearly fluids joined that puddle on Fëanáro’s stomach before long.

Grinning wolfishly, Nolofinwë situated himself between his brother’s legs and raised them to his shoulders. That finally got his attention, but Fëanáro's eyes opened only a fraction and he smiled lazily. He was all loose, warm and boneless and glowing with exertion. He mumbled Nolofinwë’s name and let his head fall back onto the mattress, dismissing the apparition for the tail end of whatever fantasy he’d been lost in.

Nolofinwë’s grin widened, and he arranged his unprotesting brother to a better position. When his cock slid home, he discovered that Fëanáro was not entirely unprepared. The thought of what Fëanáro might have been doing just moments before made Nolofinwë tremble and spill a little, to add to the lubrication. 

Somehow, even with a cock poised at his entrance, Fëanáro remained a swooning participant to his own ravishment. Nolofinwë gave him a moment… gave _himself_ a moment to focus past the rush of blood thundering in his ears. Fëanáro’s eyes remained closed and his hands reached out blindly, touching Nolofinwë’s arms.

“Ah, brother… no more,” he mumbled. “No more, I'm done.”

Nolofinwë froze, lip caught between his teeth, no longer sure that what he had been on the point of doing was such a good idea. What if he hurt Fëanáro?

“I'm done with dreams of you, I need the real thing…” Fëanáro moaned.

That set fire to Nolofinwë and scorched him ten times hotter than before. His chest expanded around a whoop of indescribable joy, but he bit it back. He couldn’t risk startling Fëanáro with a shout of pure exhilaration… but he had another means of waking him up.

“I am here, brother,” he said, his voice more than a little cracked and gravelly. “I am…,” he panted the words distinctly, cock nudging into Fëanáro and sliding in slowly. “Right…,” Nolofinwë lowered himself atop Fëanáro, to see his brother's face better. “Here!” he growled and pushed himself all the way in. 

Fëanáro’s eyes shot open, wide and wet and full of shock. His mouth curved around a cry of surprise, cut off by the way Nolofinwë was leaning over him, folding his body in half, driving the air out of his lungs and crushing Fëanáro’s lips with his own. For a moment, Fëanáro struggled, making strangled little noises in the back in his throat, his hands scrabbling at Nolofinwë’s shoulders. Then, he shuddered all over and the tension in his limbs seeped away. The only place his body gripped relentlessly was around Nolofinwë’s cock. 

Nolofinwë raised his head and put enough space between them to have a look at his brother’s face. Fëanáro’s shock had melted back to the dreamy expression from before, but his eyes saw his brother now and his fingers found Nolofinwë’s cheek.

“You’re here,” he whispered, caressing him gently. 

“I am,” Nolofinwë smiled at him, trying to hold still even though his body was urging him to move.

“You’re really here? I'm not making this up?”

“I'm really here,” Nolofinwë underlined his words with the tiniest roll of his hips. 

“Fuck! Yes, yes, you’re here. You’re definitely here, this hurts too much to be a dream,” Fëanáro hissed, one eye squeezed shut and a little tear slipping from the corner of it. “Don’t you fucking move!” he said, gripping Nolofinwë’s arms when Nolofinwë began to move off. “Don’t stop.”

Nolofinwë lowered his head for another kiss, this one softer and searching and long enough to make his head spin. Then he moved and _moved_ and didn’t stop, no matter what Fëanáro moaned and growled as he thrashed beneath him.

***

The Mingling of the Lights had come and gone before Fëanáro woke and opened one eye just a fraction. The room was bathed in a much gentler light, all the colors muted, lines and contours blurred. Fëanáro found himself lying curled up on his side, half covered with his duvet and all spooned by something warm. He didn’t move, he had a sinking suspicion that if he did, many parts of him would start to complain. If he just lay there, cocooned in the comfortable embrace, perhaps he'd fall asleep and wake up not quite as bruised as he thought he might be. But Fëanáro’s stomach growled just then, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.

A soft chuckle behind him told Fëanáro that his brother wasn’t sleeping. The arm around him tightened its hold and Nolofinwë kissed the back of his head. 

“Someone’s hungry. And for more than my cock, I would guess,” he observed wryly.

“Debatable,” Fëanáro replied, his voice a little croaky. He’d satisfied that particular hunger until Nolofinwë cried that he was dried out like a husk. “But if I eat you all up, then there’s nothing left and what happens when I want more? Or does it grow back?”

“Idiot!” Nolofinwë snorted and nipped Fëanáro’s shoulder. “You’re filthy. You taste dirty.”

“And you don’t?”

“Maybe, but you’re much worse. You have stuff in your hair.”

“Stuff, huh?” Fëanáro was grinning, he could see the white of his teeth in the mirror and guessed that Nolofinwë was grinning behind him too. “I have stuff everywhere. And you like me filthy.”

Nolofinwë rose and propped himself on one elbow. Now Fëanáro could see him in the mirror too, hair tousled and eyes full of laughter as Nolofinwë gazed down at him.

“Maybe, but this is a whole new level of dirty. I half expected one of your brood to come over here with food, Eru knows it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve fed us, but no one came. And I don’t blame them, who would want to walk in on all… this?”

“You walked in.”

“That’s different, you were calling for me.”

There was something indescribably tender in Nolofinwë’s eyes as he said that. It squeezed around Fëanáro's heart and made him reach out for his brother. 

“And you came,” he whispered on Nolofinwë’s lips. 

“For you? Always,” Nolofinwë whispered in reply. “And repeatedly,” he added with a roguish grin.

They both snorted with laughter, foreheads pressed together. With the corner of his eye, Fëanáro caught their reflection in the mirror and nothing, he thought, could possibly be more beautiful than _that._

**Author's Note:**

> Is Fëanor fully in control of his fantasies throughout all this? Has he gone over the edge and is entertaining a harsh and completely shameless split personality? Or is there actually something in the mirror that's goading him on? I don't even know, you decide.
> 
> Either way, he's fine as long as he has his brother with him.


End file.
